The Desert Rose
by The Anime Avengers
Summary: CHAPTER FIVE UP!! The setting, AC 200(or so) The plot- Quatre under the alias Michael Smith; hidden from the clutches of someone who has the power and the smarts to shift the power of the earthsphere from what it is now and achieve what Oz never could-TO
1. The Desert Rose

Desert Rose 

Author's note: Um, I posted this up on Tarnished Oversoul, but no one reviewed it so now I'm going to try again. This is all mine, and I really am quite proud of my first g-wing story. Part three is in the works.

Disclaimer: No, not, never…unfortunately.

_ The destructive Bartons destroyed and OZ disbanded there is no use for the Gundams. They were destroyed on 25/12/197. The six Gundam pilots: Heero Yuy, Duo Maxwell, Trowa Barton, Quatre Raberba Winner, Chang Wufei and Zechs Marquise have gone their separate ways. Heero serves as the protector of former queen Relena in the Cinq kingdom and is often joined by Duo and his acquaintance Hilde. Quatre has taken on the family business and has currently finished rebuilding all damage from the war. He plans to expand the colonies after a short break with his construction team and close friends on Earth. Trowa Barton never stays in one spot, but he has been spotted performing in various colonies with a famous circus troupe. Both Wufei and Zechs are currently working for the Preventors, but little else is known about them._

_                "Dammit! Why is so much information readily available on us?" Duo didn't easily anger, but when he did it wasn't because of mismatching socks. "And who wrote this piece of shit anyways? This is easily the worst database I have ever seen!"  His fingers clicked rapidly on the keyboard with show of skill. A warm hand on shoulder got his attention, his heart began to increase slightly in pace._

_                "Duo, I want you to get some sleep." Without any show of emotion Hilde's voice was still harsh and commanding in spite of her usual bubbly, friendly nature. He ignored her and went on toying with the computer. All data on the Gundam pilots had mysteriously disappeared from the Internet, all databases and even Miss Relena's private files within the past seven days. The thirty-six hour days were catching up to him, and though he tried to hide it Duo was very pale and always angry at something._

_                "Duo, I mean it!" A tear found it's way down to the youth's shirt and he stood up with concern and grabbed one of her small hands in his. Duo clicked the computer mouse three times, both data and computer shut down (though some more permanently than others.)_

_                "Hey, don't cry babe." And the boy with the braid held her tightly in his arms._

Chapter One: The Desert Rose

199 AC- 31/12

                "Master Quatre,"

                Quatre had to strain his weary eyes beyond months of well-forgotten paperwork and look over at the voice that politely summoned him. He swept his long blond hair out of his eyes and into a short ponytail, Rashiid was smiling kindly at him with an understanding look but there was a fatherly firmness in his eyes that made the young man remember his social position and responsibilities. Now that he wasn't resisting sleep quite as much he was able to note he was in his book littered office. Quatre wasn't aware that he had an office, he also wasn't aware that contracts were often up to one hundred pages long. And he sometimes wondered if the sun really rose in the east, which would be a formidable explanation if one assumed that east was indeed west and west, east.

                "That's the spirit Master Quatre," The tall, dark haired man let in a cloaked Abdul. It always brought a grin to the blond youth's face to see the youngest of his clan. He wasn't sure whether it was the black sunglasses he donned sportingly, or perhaps how without saying more than three words the man could make the stuffiest man laugh. Abdul however was not smiling, even without being able to see his eyes Quatre could see the troubled look on his face.

                "Rashiid, could you please leave us?" Quatre requested and the man obeyed without hesitation. Abdul was entrusted with the personal issues of the youth's safety, and the intelligence field went along side with this position. Often Abdul did not bring home news Quatre would prefer to hear, and for the sake of his friends he'd prefer that they wouldn't hear.

                "What's new Abdul?"

                "Well Master Quatre, the last of the soldiers that were loyal to Barton are issuing money for you and the other pilots heads but there's no real threat in that anymore." An interesting gleam in his comrade's eyes as he lowered his sunglasses that explained to Quatre exactly what he meant. "There's been a bit of tavern threats, but it's all beer. And there was less than the usual amount of girls trying to knock down the doors and announce her passion for you, but mostly your body."

                "Is that it?" Astonishment closely followed by weariness crossed Quatre's features.

                "Sounds right to me," Abdul laid his sunglasses gently onto the large stack of papers. He seemed very interested in the left uppermost corner of the younger man's sturdy maple desk. Adding to Quatre's surprise he snapped it evenly off and jabbed a red button that was hiding in a groove. A wave tingled in both men's ears before either one of them decided on speech.

                "What was that?" The blond boy wondered, and he gave himself a small kick to insure this was no hallucination.

                "I soundproofed the room, there are some things that no ears but yours are safe audiences."

                "And here I was thinking that you were only here to wish me a happy new years."

                "And that as well, but now I fear that your life as you know it is about to come to an end very soon." Quatre didn't like the sound of that; it would mean a lot of pain for those who cared most for him.

                "Is it assassins, we can take care of assassins."

                "No Master Quatre, it's a little bit more complicated than that. You entertain the master, he wants you on his side and if you don't serve him he'll kill you. He even has spies inside this building." Quatre's kinsman was wild-eyed with fear and sweating.

                "Who is he Abdul? And what does he want?"

                "Master Quatre he will be here soon, you must change yourself and flee this place." Reaching into his red vest and shaking, Abdul pulled out a small black pistol. Quatre was unable to do anything but watch in horror as the man cocked the trigger.

"They say that in death, all life's questions are answered, but unfortunately I won't be around to answer them for you. Why and how are now on your shoulders. You have 24 hours before your departure, 24 hours left to be Quatre. Tell no one that you are leaving, try to carry on with your normal life until then." And then he smiled one final smile before he pulled the trigger back. A strange sort of peace came over Abdul's face as he collapsed to the floor in a lump. The chrome pistol only made a tiny noise as it crashed into the wall.

                "Abdul," the blond man whispered heart wrenchingly. Quatre ran to the dead figure of Abdul, still smiling. He wouldn't blame him for his treachery; he had served him well even in death. As tears ran down his face at his friend's sacrifice, he could at least resolve that Abdul was now safe from whoever could make a young and strong, confident man take his own life.

                *              *              *

                The setting was a Preventors News Years Eve celebration held in a large reception area equipped with a well stocked bar, and yet Quatre could not join in the happiness of those around him. It was only a small gathering, about seven hundred his well-trained eyes speculated, and most of them seemed to be dancing to the current songs. All were decked out in some way, though none wore any formal gowns that might have been seen five years earlier. Glitter seemed to be the theme of the coming of the colonies second century, even on the men.

                Quatre stirred his martini slowly as he picked out his friends. Heero was unsuccessfully trying to escape dancing with Relena by hiding in the darkest corner of the dance floor with poor, shy Trowa. Quatre, not for the first time noticed how great Trowa looked in casual clothes instead of a uniform. It may have worked had there not been a tight clique of screaming girls offering to pay large sums of money for their cocktail napkins amongst other personal items. Zechs, having consumed just a bit more wine than Quatre thought necessary had braided two pieces of his hair and was declaring that he was Relena. This would have brought a smile to the blond boy's face any other day, but death had a worse effect on Quatre than his present company.

                Duo was performing an old time Virginia reel that was centuries old to a slow pop song and trying to drag his girlfriend Hilde to join in with him. Across the room Wufei put on an indifferent look that announced to the world that he refused to take part in any such foolishness as dancing with inferior beings such as themselves. Even a formal request from Miss Noin couldn't submerge the thick barrier of Wufei's aura. Sally had given up trying to force him; most of the women were avoiding him as he sipped his coke. 

                Quatre then decided that now was as good as any to down this drink, but distastefully left the sour olive speared on the end of his ornamental sword and placed the empty glass beside two others. The alcohol did not provide the euphoric feeling it was designed to deliver, instead increasing his loneliness. More than anything right now as Quatre watched his friends he realized how much he had missed them. He wanted to be in that screaming crowd with Trowa and Heero, he wanted to laugh with Zechs about the misuses of alcohol, he wanted to manipulate Wufei onto the dance floor and joke around with Duo.

                But mostly he wanted to dance with someone. Anyone would do, he was in the mood to dance. Trowa seemed otherwise occupied, so he decided he could settle for the closest person to him. For the first time that night he looked at the occupants of the black, round table he was sitting at. There was only one, a shy looking girl of about twenty-two with a rosy complexion and long auburn hair cut on a fantastic diagonal. Her green/gray eyes looked down at her shimmering, silver shirt when she noticed Quatre's searching stare.

                "Hello," Quatre greeted her finally; he was nervous around the opposite sex and tried not to run a reassuring hand over his silk golden toned robes. "I'm Quatre,"

                "Oh, I know who you are." She motioned with her finger behind him where a small group of girls were whispering.

                "Than I suppose I can skip the introductions." Quatre smiled, but was groaning inwardly. The conversation was moving more quickly than Quatre thought it should be, but girls were too unpredictable. "I don't suppose you have a name,"

                "I'm not supposed to talk to strangers," Her eyes dared him to retort and play along with her.

                "But you know me." Quatre pointed out politely. "And if you don't wish to talk, we could always dance."

                "Persistent one, aren't you?" Her grin was victorious as she pulled her chair out from under her. She was tall, much taller than the blond youth even without wearing high heels. The nameless girl didn't laugh as boy from the desert stood up. They walked to the dance floor just a retro tune blasted out from the speakers. Much music and other means of entertainment had resorted to materials before the colonies were formed; it was hard to write anything original.

                Quatre listened to the lyrics as he and the girl moved across the floor in an unplanned but beautiful mannerism. He now was thanking his father for those dreadful dancing lessons he had forced the boy to take from the age of six. Quatre held her close, close enough to smell the sweet perfume of her hair although several inches above, she held her eyes with his. Evidently she was a skilled dancer, but she did not seem surprised with his skill. 

The song ended just as Quatre began to feel his liquor disagree with him. As a faster song came on he excused himself although he would have liked to stay longer. Only habit made him grab the olive backpack he carried to parties in case of these certain situations, but tonight it held a few extras. The security guard smiled knowingly as he admitted Quatre out of the party and into the cool air. Quatre had quite the reputation for liquor, or rather the amount he could hold. Awkwardly he struggled to remove the top half of his silk Arabian dress robes.

                *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *              

                Sally Po was most disappointed with her date to the annual new years eve bash. It hadn't been an awfully long time since the sandy haired woman had begun going steady with the man, but she knew him well enough to know he was only sitting out because in this case he would be the inferior. Yes, she would admit that the younger man had quite the ego, but she loved him for it. This at least was a big improvement from last year; at least he came to the party. She mused, as she played with her hair, down for the first time in a long time. It hung to frame her face in long luxurious ringlets.

                Now Sally was not the type of woman to allow her evening to be spoiled by anyone, especially not Wufei. More than anything she wanted to dance, but not with just anyone. Wufei was going to get his sorry ass on the floor, she affirmed. And he was going to dance; it would be a waste of his money to have bought the party dress otherwise! So full of determination to get him onto the dance floor Sally had trotted up to the DJ to make a request, and a dare.

                Wufei was sitting, calmly concealing envy of the couples and even singles dancing as he sipped his Coke. He refused all invitations to anyone offering to buy him a drink, finding that when he drank one beer it often led to another until he was finally drunk and made an utter fool of himself. Although he had been mobbed by women during the first hour of his arrival they had seemed to have gotten the general feeling that he did not want to engage in dancing of any kind and were allowing the aura to drift out in a ten foot radius around him. While he felt rather lonely and watched longingly as Sally had danced with Duo and a couple of Preventors he had known from work it was better than sacrificing his dignity.

                It wasn't that he couldn't dance he could. Really he could, just not in a fashion appropriate for this sort of occasion. His only guide to dancing had been a borrowed _Dirty Dancing movie. And while he was no Patrick Swazee he could sure do a good grind. The idea of busting his moves was making him smile. _

Sally really did look good in that party dress, he noted mentally wondering how much it cost him this time. Problem with oona was that they never liked to be seen in the same dress twice. And they really have absolutely no concept of money! No, Wufei decided, he didn't want to know how much she had spent… The DJ's clear voice interrupted the Chinese man's train of thought.

                "We have a special request from a certain lovely lady to Chang Wufei," The DJ announced in a pause of music. "She said that he was in the mood for a fast paced disco tune. Wufei could you please come up to the dance floor… Come on Wufei, don't be shy!"

                Wufei stood up from his seat, not sure whether to strangle the grinning woman waiting for him or smile as he waited to see her reaction. He reached for her arms, and to her surprise held her in what seemed as a correct dancing position.

                "What?" Sally glared at her boyfriend from an inch below him. "You mean you knew how to dance this whole time you were sulking in your seat."

                "You'll see," he murmured in her ear as the music started up. "Just don't blame me when your cronies tell you that your boyfriend is a total slut."

                "_Everybody was Kung Fu Fighting!"_

                "That's very funny onna," Wufei rolled his eyes as he started to catch the tempo. Sally gave him a shocked, but amused look when she realized his dancing ability. And she only grinned devilishly when his hand found her knee.

                *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *              

                "Quatre," Trowa called into the darkness of the empty street. 

Even from so many stories down he could hear that the party was in full swing, but Trowa had never really been one for parties. There were far too many bubble headed females that asked too many questions. Those who weren't, were too smart to not have connections to some military intelligence agency, at least half his own, and the rest too tall. Trowa had a peeve about people taller than he was; he refused to date them. As tall as he was he had no sympathy for a tall good-looking man or woman. The men wouldn't be so bad if they weren't so god damned stiff. They would sip their beers and laugh you off in public, then want to crawl back into your bed after hours.

                "Quatre!" Trowa called him a little louder. There was the sound of a stomach working in reverse followed by a crash of branches ruffling. The blond young man came out slowly out of the sparse hedges, embarrassment bright in his red cheeks. His clothes were a mess to say the least, but he had at least managed to save the top. Silk didn't do to well in a washing machine.

                "Hi," he croaked. Suddenly his stomach decided to remove the last of the alcohol the man had decided to poison himself with, and the night's scant dinner just to spite him.

                "Quatre, Quatre, Quatre." Trowa sighed as he steadied his boyfriend with a sturdy hand holding him up. A second held the hair out of his eyes. Finally, when there was nothing left in Quatre's stomach to bring up he shakily turned his head skyward. The brown haired man said nothing and pulled a handkerchief out of a pant pocket.

                "Thank you Trowa, I don't know what I'd do with out you." He laughed as he struggled to find his chin. Trowa decided that he would intervene here.

                "Quatre," the brown haired man smiled wickedly. "Without me you would come to more parties, become drunk more often and spoil more expensive clothes that can't go in the washing machine."

                "That's not fair."

                "Of course it's not, but if you weren't drunk you could cleverly find a way to come up with a way to make light of the situation." A plain, unmarked olive school bag caught the observant circus man's eyes as he and Quatre began to stumble out of the parking lot, though Quatre was doing most of the stumbling. "I see you came prepared."

                "Yeah," The man with locks the colour of the desert he came from was pained at the thought of leaving this man. He was so gentle and caring, and although there might sometimes be other people in his life he would always be waiting for him. "Trowa, thank you. You didn't have to do this for me."

                "Yes, and you didn't have to do this to me but you didn't listen either." His expression was teasing; one Quatre only saw when they were alone together.

                "I'm serious Trowa. I think I love you," They stopped for a moment and he reached for the long lock of hair that hung in Trowa's face. A larger, quicker one stopped him.

                "Not with one of those hands babe, I'll have my shower when I'm good and ready. And don't think I'm going to kiss you right now either. Let me take you home and clean you up, then we'll see about a kiss."

                "That sounds like a deal."

                *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *

                "Quatre!" Trowa's older sister rushed to greet him warmly. Unlike her brother, she seemed all right with the idea of hugging someone who had previously been publicly displaying his evening's menu. "Oh dear Quatre, when will you ever learn that alcohol disagrees with you."

                "I'm actually quite fond of it." Quatre laughed as Katherine inspected the damage and began to take his shirt in the direction of the laundry room. The wavy haired woman was like a mother and sister to him.

                "I want your undershirt now and Trowa will bring the rest of your stuff down after you've stripped." Her tone was as strict as Miss Noin's in the heat of battle. "And don't even think you're going home in that condition! I'll give Rashiid a call for you to tell him where you are- and I don't want to hear one word of complaints out of you."

                "Yes Katherine," Quatre smiled lovingly at the tall woman. " And thank you, for everything."

                "Pity that there aren't more men around here as polite and grateful around here." Trowa instantly dropped to grab Quatre's bag and look helpful. "There wouldn't be any wars if the rest of the world was like you."

                Her brother suddenly grew stiff and Katherine's grey eyes dropped with shame. A warning glance passed between the two and harshly Trowa turned to Quatre.

                "Come on, Katherine's going to need to wash those clothes."

                *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *

                "Are you okay?" The brown haired man was sitting cross-legged on the toilet seat fiddling with his lover's watch as he showered. Quatre had been inside the shower for about half an hour now, exceptionally long for even one who was as meticulously clean as himself.

                There was a pause before Quatre answered. He was busy thinking, because tonight would be his last night for a long time to see Trowa. And although it might be the alcohol thinking for him right now, well he wasn't going to waste his night. "I can't reach my back,"

                Trowa could hear the uncertainty in the blond man's voice as he cocked his head in direction of the shower. Something was up, they both knew that normally Quatre would not be this willing to submit. "Are you sure that's what you want Quatre?"

                "Yes," He decided firmly. Quickly Trowa stripped down and stepped into the rushing water.

                *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *

                "Trowa, why do you love me?" Quatre asked later as he laid his head against his lover's hard, well-muscled chest.

                "You're the kindest person I've ever met, and I find that you amuse me." Gently Trowa placed his lips on the blond boy's hair. He was so innocent, so weak and loving. A lot closer to a little, naive boy than a man, he needed to be protected from the harsh world he lived. A world where people were never quite what they appeared was a dangerous place for a boy that trusted all. "You bring out the part of me I lost when I lost my identity, and I love you for that. No matter where you go Quatre, I'll be waiting."

                "I…" Quatre was at a loss for words. Surely he could just tell Trowa… Trowa loved him for too much to let anyone know. NO! His conscience wrenched inside of him tightly. Think of Abdul! He died trying to tell you that, you are not going to let yourself give it up on some whim! _Trowa is not a whim! A different part of his brain screamed. __I love him! I don't care if you love him or not! Think of it like a mission; tell no one, especially not Trowa._

                Tears of frustration streamed down Quatre's face and found Trowa's hands on his face.

                "I didn't really hurt you that badly back in the shower, did I?" Though his tone was teasing, his eyes were cold and serious.

                "Oh no," the Sandrock polite almost purred, hoping to forget his problems in another hour of passion. But even all of his schooling in the ways of words couldn't think of a polite way to ask. Besides, he had to wake up early. No, Quatre decided snuggling further into Trowa's warm embrace. It would be best to sleep now…

                *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *

                It was the vibrating "alarm" on his wristwatch that woke the blond man at four the next morning. Grudgingly, Quatre resigned himself to break from the warm embrace. Still half asleep he grabbed at his olive traveling bag inscribed with the words _Quatre Raberba Winner and emptied its contents. A bottle of rust red hair dye, unremarkable casual clothes, cash, only savings from home, a laptop and smaller black backpack sat spread out around his feet._

                No, the Sandrock pilot frowned. That couldn't be all. He shook the bag again and out fell Abdul's sunglasses, a cap he'd owned from childhood (but scarcely worn) and his trusty pocket knife. His mission: to make himself as unremarkable as possible. With this is mind he recollected his items and brought them into the bathroom. A blush filled his cheeks as he remembered last night's activities, though without regret and thanked god for having created him male. Guiltily he admitted it was great to not have to worry about the excess baggage that came with straight sex.

                Sulking with each movement Quatre proceeded to don a pair of blue jeans, how he loathed blue jeans, a plain black turtle neck and blue jean jacket. The next step would be an ugly gash across his face, insuring that no one would want to take a second look at his face. Due to causes beyond his own control his face was one that did not go by unnoticed. Though it took a good ten minutes to allow his ego to settle and accept a scarring of his almost perfect features, and another ten to hold the shaking knife to his face the rather unpleasant sting of open flesh began to overwhelm his senses.

                "Shit!" Quatre whispered, dropping the blade and graciously swabbing his face with a towel. The blade had dug had dug deeper than he intended for a simple flesh wound. The crimson substance was now flowing out at such a rapid rate that the towel was now completely soaked and no longer white. Cursing he whipped open the medicine cabinet to pull out gauze from the top shelf. He also removed the liquid bandages and rubbing alcohol, to clean the wound.

                Eventually the wound began to put out less blood, and it was now only trickling. Pressed for time Trowa's Arabian lover swabbed his face with alcohol and applied the "skin glue." 

Eyeing his blond ponytail he realized that this too would have to go, it of course was a little too easy to spot. Taking out the knife again he gathered his hair into a bun onto his head, save his bangs, and cut it short. Exchanging his knife for a set of tiny scissors he clipped his bangs into an arc pattern starting at his ears that would allow him to see. Then working on his shag cut it almost evenly to an unruly ½ inch.

                Whether it was out of time, or maybe sleep Quatre didn't even bother to check his appearance in the mirror as he lathered on the dye. After ten minutes he rinsed it conditioned and towel dried. 

Taking a look at his watch he realized it was now ten to six. Or at least his watch had stopped at ten to six. He would have to hustle now. Hurriedly he scribbled a quick note to Trowa and Katherine, apologizing for the mess and his disappearance (he admitted to himself that he was just a little melodramatic, but in his situation he was allowed to be.) After neatly placing his few articles into his backpack he studied his reflection in the mirror; the scar had the desired effect, making his eyes want to tear away from his face. But holding them he found that he actually liked his copper toned hair. So it wasn't sleek and well managed now, but with a little gel he could head bang at any party. The black sunglasses fit his small face perfectly, to his surprise, and he decided to leave the cap.

                His only worry now was sneaking out of the house silently. That wouldn't be too hard… he mused. And he needed a code name. Though in his mind he boyishly pictured himself as a masked bandito, Desert Rose, it wouldn't work out too well in real life. Quatre chuckled at himself as he dropped his useless Rolex on the floor. Unremarkable…Michael Smith. As unremarkable as they came, he noted with some sadness. He much fancied his name…

                But it would only be temporary, he reminded himself as he slipped into the kitchen. The back door was in sight now, Quatre approached it slowly in the brightening room. Foot on floor with completely silent fluid movements, and totally invisible. Duo would have been proud and shamed of his pupil. Just a few more steps…

                "Quatre?" a feminine voice he knew so well summoned him out of the darkness. "Quatre, it's so dark in here. Let me turn on the lights…"

                "No," he whispered, somehow being able to show kindness and command. Be natural, be natural… Who am I kidding? "Um… I don't want to wake Trowa… I'm just going to grab a coffee, er… do you want be to bring you back anything?"

                "Oh dear Quatre, you would make the perfect thief someday." Even in the darkness the tall, loving acrobat found his unmarked cheek. And gently she caressed it. "I know that you're never coming back, ever. Not even after all this mess is done with. I do wish it hadn't happened… But never mind you must be gone before Trowa awakens."

                "Will you…"

                "No," she shook her head, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. "I won't tell him." Gently, almost timidly she kissed the cheek of the one she had secretly yearned to do so for so long. But now was not the time. "Now go…"

                "Oh Katherine…" was Quatre's tenderhearted response as he placed his hand on the door. A noisy clunk, most likely Trowa accidentally brushing the something off of the nightstand interrupted his prolonged stare at the woman. Silently, with one more painful glance backwards the Desert Rose left her standing in the kitchen, agonizingly aware of the strange feelings she was bringing out in him.


	2. The Mole

Desert Rose  
  
Author's babble: Keep the feedback flowing…actually there isn't any feedback, is there? But hey, I can sure god damn well hope!  
  
Disclaimer: I don't have the ownership papers. But how do we know they do? Has anyone ever seen the papers? For all we know, there are no ownership papers.  
  
Warning: Total Trowa bashing fic (which is odd for me, love that guy.)  
  
Part Two: The Mole  
  
Trowa realizing the absence of his tiny Arabian lover frowned angrily. His eyes creaked open sleepily, quickly the landed on a small note beside his hand. He groped for it, not fully awake to read. It was like his eyes always woke up ten minutes after the rest of his body. Actually, Trowa diverted his attention from the note for a while longer, it seemed that in reality one's body only fully woke up at night. And one was finally fully awake and alert they were obliged to sleep. This explained why Trowa often worked on seventy-two hour days. A little trick he had picked up from assassins in his earlier years, always be alert.  
  
Finally his wary eyes readjusted enough to see his lover's tidy scrawl in the rapidly vanishing darkness. The paper was wet, wet and red. Holding it closer to his nose the Heavy arms pilot discovered a tangent, saline scent. Blood. Trowa reckoned that regardless the reason for Quatre's departure, he was being just a tad melodramatic with the blond. The Sandrock pilot had a flare for dramatics. Curiosity overpowering anger, he shifted the note further away from his face.  
  
Trowa,  
I really am sorry to have you wake up and find me gone. That's rather inconvenient of me, believe me that I'd rather be wrapped up in your arms gazing into your grey eyes than where I am now. Actually, I can't tell you where I've gone. Perhaps I shouldn't tell you even this much, but someone's after me. One of my closest friends risked their life giving me this message, so understandably I couldn't tell you anything else, even if I knew. Mostly, I just want to tell you that I love you. I hope that when all this is over you'll still be waiting. If not I could always settle down, marry and have a couple dozen daughters. I'm sorry, my attempt at a joke.  
  
Your Desert Rose  
  
Trowa would have liked to have sworn, or thrown something across the room, or perhaps ripped the note. Instead, his countless years of training kicked in. There could have been only one person to blame for this sudden departure. One person, and she was sitting downstairs…  
  
Emotions completely under the mask that was his face, the former Gundam pilot opened the top drawer of his night stand. Under a few shirts, tidy black turtlenecks, lay his chrome nine-millimeter. He had suspected that eventually there might come a time when he might have to come to these extremes. But Trowa had not gotten this far from stupidity. No, first he must weigh the options.  
  
Katherine was the head of his intelligence unit. Also a correspondent with members of her circus troupe. Everyday she went for coffee at the same place and most people in the neighbourhood knew her, if not well. It was part of her job to be able to gather information easily, and that was easier when people trusted you. Besides, he might like to have her around to announce his next betrayal. No, acid might work better… And she had always fancied that mask of his…  
  
But that too was a little too drastic for his liking, he figured as he threw on one of the tidy turtlenecks and tight-fitted white jeans.  
  
Instead he crept silently into the kitchen weaponless. Her eyes were glued on the same spot staring, but there was no Quatre. He had left already.  
  
Katherine acknowledged her brother by turning her head slightly. A small frown that crossed her lips flipped into a smirk.  
  
"Abdul, 31/12/199. 13:23, cause of death, suicide. Reason, fear of punishment that would come from his "anonymous" master's hand when he found out of his treason." The smirk played out it's stance, just daring Trowa to try something.  
  
He nodded and turned, as if to leave. Instead, he drew a knife and plunged it into her leg without expression. The acrobat seemed to ignore her cry of pain. He didn't return the smirk, he didn't look her at all. Trowa slipped on a pair of shoes, grabbed a coat, threw his cell at his sister and exited.  
  
***********  
  
Quatre heard nothing but the pound of his large feet on cold concrete as he ran. Then the tactician realized that number one, no one would recognize him as being Quatre from a distance and number two, no one trying to be conspicuous would be running. So he slowed and walked lazily into the coffee shop. He didn't really like coffee, but it was to be part of his role as the unremarkable person.  
  
The Arabian studied his role; he decided on twenty-two from Hope, United North and South America. He was a student in this area that needed money to pay his education at the local U. He also was interested in the local armed forces unit because he heard the corporation paid for education of their employees. His music style would be a reflection of his outer style, a rock and metal lover. His attitude would be friendly with a sense of humour to an extent, but not so friendly that he would go out of his way for anyone. And into girls in a big way.  
  
And coffee. This Michael Smith was going to be a coffee lover.  
  
"Next please," the girl ushered Quatre to move forward in line. Her name tag read Rosy, and her hair was cut on the same fabulous angle he had noted last night. Only today it hung in a playful high ponytail. Quatre noticed her apparent approval of his looks, even his scar. He tried to disregard her speechlessness as he ordered.  
  
"Hello… Rosy," Quatre pretended to have to read her name. "I'd like a cappuccino."  
  
"A cappuccino," Rosy gulped, any of her skills around the opposite sex that she'd showed last night were disappearing.  
  
"Please," Quatre smiled from ear to ear, trying to charm the girl as Michael would have if his character existed. "With extra foam."  
  
"Would you like any toppings?"  
  
"I like cinnamon on my cappuccino, but what I'd really like is your phone number." The second girl working there, a blond girl that was probably younger than Rosy jumped at the comment, spilling a good portion of the coffee down her shirt.  
  
"My phone number?" Rosy fumbled around her apron pockets for a pen.  
  
"Hey buddy, hurry up!" Somebody called from near the end of the line. Quatre frowned and glared down the line. He was quite proud of his acting skills actually, but he didn't let it show.  
  
"Listen Rosy, how about I take my coffee over to that table there. And as soon as you get a break, we can talk."  
  
"Uh huh," she nodded, shock mixed with happiness clear in her eyes.  
  
***********  
  
Trowa said nothing as the engine of his red beater died while he was tail end out of his drive and into the street. The curses of the passing drivers that were forced to swerve around him were enough to suffice for Trowa's silence. Quatre had to be stopped if he knew anything about his operation. He couldn't do too much with a former Gundam on the loose, even if they didn't know anything. Especially Quatre.  
  
Quatre was beautiful, and sweet but as dangerous as a cobra when he wanted to be. Fortunately, cobras were easily defanged, and then about as dangerous as a new born kitten.   
  
And Quatre, as intelligent as he was would probably be running as far away from the source of power as possible. Duo's was probably a good bet on where Quatre was probably hiding. But he couldn't just barge in and ask directly for Quatre, it wouldn't be fun at all to alert the two. Trowa smiled wickedly. No, I will visit the Winner manner as schedule.  
  
Besides, the office was getting dull and he needed a new base of operations. And perhaps a disappearance of a loved one would lure Quatre home.  
  
***********  
  
Quatre was sitting at a table, thinking. He did need to be known to some people, but could he really afford to have someone fall in love with him. When this was all over he wanted to go back to being Quatre, and he wanted to go back to Trowa if he would take him.  
  
Quatre thought of what he needed. A home, money, a job and an identity. ID's were easy enough to fake, but he had to be known in the community. He could access money from one of his accounts, but who was to say that who ever this person searching for him wouldn't or couldn't access his location with one withdrawal. The same with buying a home, even under a new name. Unless he could get a buyer to purchase it for him. But who would purchase a him without suspicion.  
  
An apartment, he thought suddenly. An apartment on the bad side of town with a rep for trouble that keeps bad records, or none on their occupants. He smiled, that would work. And a job would take care of money. The only problem was the cash he held until payday. Quatre flipped through his black, fat wallet. Surprising he was carrying a thousand dollars in cash and five hundred dollars in store credits-  
  
"Hey," a feminine voice broke through his line of thought. Rosy, Quatre was already beginning to recognize her voice. He slowly drew his eyes up, gathering in information from her appearance though she probably though he was checking her out. When he reached her eyes that she held coolly, though pink in the face, the girl smiled. Courage, he deducted through her simple actions. Though frightened and feeling stupid she did what she wanted, needed.  
  
"Oh hi, Rosy." He draw the name out deliciously slow and grinned evilly as the girl turned an even lovelier shade of rose. He was even enjoying this game of toying with the emotions of others, which was surprising as he would have to hurt her when his need for her was over. For now Quatre decided that it would be enough just to worry about the present time, and he diverted his attention from his dilemma. "Why don't you pull up a seat babe?"  
  
"Thanks," Rosy paused, straining her brain while trying to remember something. Something about stranger reminded her of someone, but she couldn't label who or why. Who ever he was, he certainly intrigued her. He may have been pretending to be a player, but Rosy was able to see through the ploy. Although he was attractive and obviously attention grabbing there was something remotely distant about this copper haired man. She seriously doubted that he was out looking for a girlfriend, but rather trying to establish something with someone or something she didn't know. The idea was somewhat unappealing and she began to wonder what he really wanted.  
  
"So what did you say your name was?"  
  
"It's Michael," Quatre told her before sipping distastefully at his cappuccino. She seemed to know more than she let on and he worried if she could see him as the drunken blond he had been last night. Something about her made him suspect that she didn't really work at the coffee shop, but perhaps she didn't if she had attended a Preventors party the night prior. She was probably working undercover, but for what he didn't know. Who ever was after him was moving quietly enough not to alert attention to themselves and seemed to be focused more on himself than global or colonial domination which was strange. Quatre also knew that news of his disappearance couldn't be out yet, Trowa was probably waiting for him to crawl back to his house with his tail between his legs and apologize for not trusting the heavy arms pilot. Why did everyone underestimate him? He wondered angrily.  
  
"Do you mind if I call you Mike?" the girl opposite Quatre asked with a smile. Where did she know him? She wondered angry for not being able to identify him immediately. He probably even worked at her office, and like her was under cover to investigate the threat posed on the Sand rock pilot. Rosy had always been fascinated by the Gundam boys since the fateful day in Miss Relena's peace lectures that pilot 01 and pilot 04 entered the classroom. Though they had not been introduced as this, she'd known who they were. Rosy had memorized all of the quintet wonders' faces. Home colonies and histories, she knew it all discluding Heero's true identity. But it was the 04 pilot that interested her most, who had like 01 been able to master the intense inner workings of the zero system. How he was able to change from such a brat, into the well mannered young man all knew him as. And how a soldier could be so gentle, how he could kill in cold blood and hate the pain of others.  
  
  
  
***********  
  
"Mike Smith, eh?" The tubby, cigar smoking man that owned the department store was beginning to irritate Quatre. Never having to work under anyone, Quatre had little patience for people that openly abused their power on others.   
  
"Michael Smith," Quatre corrected, shifting his weight from his right leg to his left. There was a prolonged pause as the evident head honcho examined this new boy. Quatre was in the same instant taking in every thing of who might become his new employer. His eyes showed little signs of intelligence, and there were no remnants of what might have been muscles from earlier days. Greasy hair and skin, but expensive clothes from the shops Quatre once frequented. It looked to Quatre from all aspects that this man had got this job through relatives and luck.  
  
This evaluation took Quatre the whole of ten seconds. The man, Mr. Mallory read his jacket, took longer with his evaluation. His eyes appreciatively at the hiding muscle on the boy that meant he worked hard. His eyes seemed honest enough, feminine golden lashes that didn't at all match his bronze hair framed them. His clothes were not torn, or ripped so he had some options in jobs. The only thing that this Mr. Mallory disapproved of was scar on Quatre's face that was beginning to puff out, probably infected. He showed this through a disgusted look on his face.  
  
"How'd you get the scar boy?" He demanded of Quatre. "You've been fighting with anyone?"  
  
"No sir," Quatre smiled inwardly. Fighting human against human without the luxury of mobile suits was not a common past time until recently. The adrenaline rush that came with the rush of punching and watching your blood spill on the floor was attracting more victims daily.  
  
"How'd you get 'er?"  
  
"I got it from shaving at five in the morning." The copper haired man's dislike for the lazy accented man didn't seem to rub off. Mr. Mallory instead was taking a liking to the boy that Quatre felt it would be better to break in the long run. Unremarkable sometimes meant impolite to an extent, but sudden disappearances were more inconvenient.  
  
"I was a little distracted by the woman in the window across the street undressing. Got to love old houses. The windows are always so big. What a view!" Again Quatre made an inward grimace that were a sign of what he really felt for old Mrs. Hinkle who had lived next door, and at the same time he tried to hold a goofy smile on his face. The big man's lips pursed before deciding a station for the man.  
  
"All right Michael Smith, you have yourself a job. I'm sure the boys in stock have need for you."  
  
***  
  
"Rashiid." Trowa greeted the tall Arab in his usual, confident fashion. The Arab felt no malice in the familiar face's words, and in turn gave him a small smile.  
  
"I'm afraid Master Trowa, that your Quatre is out at the moment. This really isn't a good time for a visit."  
  
"This isn't a visit." From the European's sleek jeans emerged a chromium weapon. With his same calm, cruel confidence, Trowa pointed it at the Arab menacingly. Rashiid's eyes widened, but the warrior stood cool.  
  
"Well, that certainly changes things." 


	3. The Mission

The Mission

Author's note: Hmm, isn't it amazing how many reviews this hard-working author gets. Oh, yeah, heavy Trowa bashing in this part.

Disclaimer: No, Gundam Wing is not mine.

                Rashiid eyed the gun to his head wearily. Cautiously, he began to raise his hands above his head. "What do you want Trowa?"

                "You know exactly what I want," the man whispered gently into his ear. The antique gun in his hand was being cocked coolly while Rashiid gathered his thoughts. "I want your sweet Quatre. I want this house, and I want all the staff unloyal to me gone. You, I want dead."

                "But why Quatre?" the big man whispered with fear for the boy he'd helped bring up. "Why Trowa?"

                Trowa swept back the mask of hair from his face with one hand still on the gun. Both of his dazzling emerald eyes were visible, and their uncaring cruelty was shocking clear in their projection. "There are five Gundam pilots, and then two that might have rivalled us in strength. Treize is dead and Zechs doesn't care about us ickle little boys." He blinked both eyes, as if the light stung. "That leaves four people. Four things that could screw me over in this little operation. There are only two possibilities for these four screw-ups; they ally themselves with me or face termination. Even dear little Quatre."

                Trowa paused for a moment to take in the effect of his words take their affect on Rashiid. The big man was staring in shock at the boy's dangerous expression. Trowa, his Quatre's dear Trowa was going to lead the world into another war, and with Quatre at his side. Rashiid knew that this boy was not born under the Barton name, but he was sure doing a good job to live up to his alias.

                "Now please don't misunderstand me, I do hold Quatre very close to my heart." The chrome weapon was grated to the Arab's temple. "Even so, he is just a tool in this little game I'm playing. Like a favourite car, I'll feed him with sugary-sweet compliments and sex, and I return I get an ally who would spare his life for me."

                "Why Trowa?" the man whimpered as the cold metal grinded against his weather-worn skin.

                "It's simple dear Rashiid," His cold green eyes flickered with annoyance, one of the first emtions Rashiid had ever seen come from them. The Arab took his what would be his last look out onto the sun-blistered desert. He had been born in an underground base not many miles off where he had learned to fight for the land that he loved. He loved every square inch of harsh terrain that had taught him the lessons of survival; never forget your wineskin, your rifle and backup. "This world belongs to the soldiers that fought for it, not those peace-loving tree-huggers like Relena Peacecraft. I will take this world, our world and bring it into a war to get rid of the weak. All those that oppose me, will die."

                "And what after this war? Then what Trowa? Who will you have left to fight then?" Head cocked in a thinking condition, Trowa thought about this for a second. He smiled a rare smile and nodded to himself.

                "There will always be a war to fight amongst warriors Rashiid. That was their mistake in making me into this thing, this machine. I will not succumb to their rules and regulations. I will not become a service simply to be terminated when the user feels it necessary. But that is more than you truly need to know Rashiid." The lean youth closed a effeminate finger on the trigger, and the bullet exploded from the barrel. Rashiid doubled over with a cough, blood erupting from both the wound in his head and his gaping mouth. And then it was over, and the boy felt no reason to remain.


	4. The Emissary

The Emissary  
  
Author's Note: And voila, part four of this little drama unfolding. I'm glad that people are liking it, thank you! And I want to add that it was stupid of me to post this on two names, I deleted it on my other name. In this chapter you get to meet Heero! It's March Break, and instead of actually working on my Religion essay or hanging with friends I'm working on my fic for ya. You should feel privileged.  
  
Thank You's: I'd like to say thank you to everyone who reviewed this story, your reviews really make me smile, so keep doing it. Thank you Kasra, Impassioned Insomniac, Mudpie and special thanks to Jefcat! Oh, and I would also like to say thank you my two new betas, Liz and Janine. That offer is now closed.  
  
Disclaimer: This belongs to someone who's making more money than me, so skip along.  
  
"And in recent news, the heir to the Arabian Winner family that spent so much money rebuilding the colonies after the war against OZ has disappeared." The dark haired boy looked up from his black laptop to glare at the television screen in the other corner of the room. "We have tried many times to contact the Winner Manor in Saudi Arabia to gather more information on this, but the heir's head advisor and leader of the Maganacs has not been responding to our contact. This leads us to believe that Rashiid to has disappeared. HPO news has sent special correspondents to the Winner manor to try to gather some information on the pair's mysterious disappearance, but they too disappear as soon upon entering the Winner borders."  
  
Heero jerked his head rapidly from his monitor and sat in a direction that faced the television monitor. All other thoughts were put on hold for the moment, Quatre's disappearance was a key sign in a new, and powerful enemy. Someone who had destroyed, kidnapped or scared off Quatre was not the average, run-of-the-mill criminal. The suspects in his mind were clearly a gundam pilot, Zechs or possibly a new faction that had sprung out of some loose-end he had forgotten to take care of. Heero hated loose ends.  
  
The dark-haired pilot grabbed his gun from beside the glowing computer screen, a sleek leather coat from a rack above and the handy laptop itself.  
  
"Mission, accepted."  
  
***  
  
The air in the hotel room was moist, and the need for a good humidifier was quite evident. The beige or pink walls, Quatre wasn't sure which of the two colours the wall were coloured, were not relaxing his tensed brain. The whole of this over-priced, cheap hotel room was ugly and vulgar. The room was cramped, the television screen and the edge of the ratty double bed almost touched, the only other furniture in the room was a crude desk with an ancient telephone. The room was so cramped that in order to wash your hands in the bathroom you had to stand on the toilet, and there were no showers in the room. These were located at the end of the paint-peeled, too narrow hall. Perhaps Quatre was all too used to the luxuries of his beautiful home in Saudi Arabia, but he war pretty sure that this was a dog house. Not a house fit for his dogs, but a dog house was the least vulgar of the descriptions he had in mind.  
  
Quatre was so wound up, too much to go to sleep so he lay in the bed with its half rusted springs, and stared at the ceiling, counting the individual cells. His lights were out, but the buildings in this part of the city were too grossly packed and too lit at this time of night for him to think of darkness. Every sound made him jump for his gun on the desk. Especially the voices through the paper-thin walls. The boy finally gave up on trying to sleep and walked for his laptop.  
  
"Hmm, someone trying to contact me?" the bronze-haired gundam pilot muttered to himself as he clicked on the mail icon with the name Trowa beside.  
  
Dear Quatre,  
  
My desert rose, when I woke up alone without you by myself I felt so empty to think that you were not by my side. It pains me to think that whatever the danger, you do not feel safe to come to me. That you do not feel you can trust me ad my intentions. Quatre, my sweet love, I would never do a thing to hurt, intentionally or unintentionally. You have gone and made a hole in my soul that I feel cannot be soothed by your assurances. Please Quatre, call me, email me, find some way to let me know how you are if not where.  
  
Your anxious lover, Trowa  
  
***  
  
"Master Trowa?" was the tenacious invitation from his laptop. The dark haired boy looked up from his email account, of which he was so anxiously awaiting the arrival of his sweet Quatre's email. He knew the soft blond boy really was incompetent at refusing any request that Trowa might give him. Especially those where love was concerned.  
  
"Rodriquez?" Trowa inquired when the servant didn't take his hint.  
  
"You requested someone to clean this mess?"  
  
"Yes," Trowa glanced in the direction of Rashiid's immobile body. "Please, don't let me bother you."  
  
The Spaniard looked a little unnerved by the body and Trowa's calm resolve towards his actions, but gathered Rashiid into a zippered bag without any questions.  
  
***  
  
The blond boy slammed his notebook closed in a one of his rare fits of anger. It wasn't fair, how could Trowa not understand his pain. How could he not understand that if he responded to his stupid email he could be traced? It wasn't even unreasonable to think that someone somewhere was tracing his computer connection right now as he stared hazily at the screen? It was stupid to bring the notebook with him. It was stupid to run from an enemy he couldn't see. Stupid to cower in a corner from something while he should be plotting against whoever had forced this situation upon him.  
  
Tiny tears began to stream down Quatre's face, and he caught one into a tight fist. It just wasn't goddamn fair.  
  
***  
  
"Hmph." Heero dismissed the red-haired woman with a coke in her hand. The Japanese boy couldn't for the life of him figure out how stewardesses were oblivious to some of his best death glares. They always approached him and asked him the same stupid questions. Time after time, "Would you like some Peanuts?" "How about a coke?" "How are you doing today?" "Do you know where the emergency life jackets are on the plane?"  
  
Occasionally Heero would answer, "Yes, you stupid little fuck, I know where the hell the life preservers are. This is a military jet." And then the girl would run off crying into a corner while he glared. Occasionally he'd had his job threatened for such, but he knew that they would never actually fire one of their best spies for an issue so tiny as telling of a stewardess. And why were there stewardesses on military private planes anyways?  
  
"Hmmm?" The Japanese boy gave his attention to the small computer screen in front of him. His attempts to hack into Quatre's email account were finally successful. This was a delightful, but necessary surprise. If it was anyone that Quatre knew, and Heero was fairly certain that this new threat was, he was sure that they would try and contact Quatre and coax him out of hiding. Heero just hoped the boy had enough sense not to answer…  
  
Heero found what he was looking for and clicked rapidly on the envelope icon.  
  
Dear Quatre,  
  
My desert rose, when I woke up alone without you by myself I felt so empty to think that you were not by my side. It pains me to think that whatever the danger, you do not feel safe to come to me. That you do not feel you can trust me ad my intentions. Quatre, my sweet love, I would never do a thing to hurt, intentionally or unintentionally. You have gone and made a hole in my soul that I feel cannot be soothed by your assurances. Please Quatre, call me, email me, find some way to let me know how you are if not where.  
  
Your anxious lover, Trowa  
  
Heero tucked his head to his chest in shame as he pondered the situation. So then it is him who has made himself an enemy in me… 


	5. Suspicious Minds (revised)

**_Suspicious Minds_**

Author's Note: I am so ridiculous sometimes. I started writing part 6 of this story by accident because instead of following my original plot line, I added a chapter. My eyes followed down to chapter five automatically, and so while that's half done, this wasn't started. And then there was a serious case of writer's block that resulted in the later lime scene in this chapter, and it's a straight one too (run.) (It's really short too because I haven't posted in so long.)

Nothing new here, no one panic. I just made a few minor changes to make things a little smoother. Thanks to my betas for doing some editing for me. There may be changes in the future, so… Anyways, you know the drill. R&R, please and thank you- Tarnished Oversoul.

Disclaimer: When I claim it, then you can stone me. "They'll stone you when you're trying to write a book. They'll stone you and then they'll say good luck." (I think that's the quote J) Bob Dylan.

                Quatre opened the door to his new apartment and his eyes widened in disgust. Disheveled chaos is what greeted him; upturned and occasionally broken furniture draped in clothing, or at least cloth. And there was a smell, the funky odor of things once living that had died. The apartment itself was small, one step into it brought him against the wall of the bathroom, one to the right brought him against the wall of the bedroom. Not that steps were carelessly taken; the last owners had been pigs and their junk laid everywhere. Quatre had already tripped on a broken baseball bat on the way to what looked like might be hiding a kitchenette under what looked like unclean able grime. 

                With an enormous amount of willpower, the once rich Sandrock pilot hid the look of disgust in his pale eyes and restrained his natural instinct to throw up. When he had his body under control, he turned to the overweight, unshaven and un showered landlord. A chubby cigar, probably Cuban, hung out of his mouth. The stench of marijuana that flitted around him both stunk, and aided in thinning the smell of the apartment.

                Quatre was sure that the intense amount of effort he was taking to smile at this unclean pig was showing, and there was no show of return in a face half-dead and equally alert. His sallow, beady eyes stared unnervingly out at him from the sagging, unhealthy orange of his skin. His mouth only continued chewing on the cigar, saliva threatening to drop onto the mess of a floor at any second, and Quatre was vaguely reminded of a cow in a pasture. The boy felt an unhealthy urge stirring inside him to kill and suppressed it to, instead, try conversation with this vapid beast.

                "So…what happened to the last people who lived here?"

                The landlord chewed lazily on his cigar butt, as if oblivious to Quatre's question. Quatre himself just sighed.

                "How much is it to rent this apartment then?" Again the landlord looked to the boy with the stoned eyes of a delirious man. Again the Arabian put his hands together in an exasperated expression. "Oh dear."

*** 

                The sky was bright, and the temperature was unusually warm for the time of year, which meant the colony weather heads had growing crops in mind for the year. The bronze haired Arabian felt the rays of the colony's nuclear heating system and was reminded of a time when it had been the sunlight that heated his skin. Reminded of the desert of his origin even amid this crowd of honking cars and wailing sirens. All things artificial and made by the hands of man to replace what nature had once performed. Grass grown in laboratories, heat from harnessed nucleic action, clouds made by huge machines that heated artificially combined hydrogen and oxygen before then releasing it into the air.

 And it was all so surreal, the people that elbowed him forward, that screamed with the wailing crowd to go faster and faster into the incoherent bustle of noise and activity that whirled around him. Yes, all around him but never touching. 

                It was all so strangely deceptive, life. And the bronze haired boy hated it so much. The parade of mindless drones and their sheer lack of appreciation for that around them, all the while reveling in the same destruction they created. They couldn't feel his pain, and they didn't know pain. Still, the populace was hooked on the prescribed drugs to perk them into a happiness that course of nature no longer could provide.

                Society as he knew it could easily be compared to a stinking cesspool than the picture of humanity it was supposed to represent.

                So Quatre walked into the well-lit, aromatic café.

                Hardly any line up stood between him and the counter as he waited to get his caffeine supplement for the day, already something he was beginning to rely on. This was to be expected however, his employer ran strange shifts. It had become instinct now to come into this coffee shop as soon as his shift was up, smile to the girl behind the counter while he ordered his frothy beverage and then pump Rosy for information about everything and anything.

                It wasn't much of a life, hiding in the shadows while the world around you turned. And there wasn't much of a life in hiding behind a mask, with the fear that any kind action might spawn a friendship of lies that would only result in tears. There were other things he hated too. For the first time ever he had connected with Trowa on a physical level as well as emotional, and now they both were alone.

                He swirled the indented black stir stick in his coffee and tried to avoid the look the girl Rosy was giving him from across the room. The Arabic didn't know why he was here on the one particular day that his disposition was less than content, except for maybe instinct. And Rosy was aggressive, the type of woman that wouldn't back of if they were told to on the account of a bad mood. Quite the opposite.

                "Mike!" The squeal that greeted him enthusiastically was not returned with the usual salutation. The woman studied the petite man with an expression that had quickly contorted to worried with a dainty upheaval of perfectly plucked eyebrows.

                It was too cute, Quatre couldn't help but return an ironic smile in spite of himself. He felt the leather of his jacket squeak a little as he rose his arms up in defeat. "You win, you're just too kawaii sometimes Rose." His embrace was quick as that between two friends, but the tightly stretched shirt allowed him to feel the rub of her remarkably firm nipples against his own shirt. Not sure if the girl had even noticed, Quatre hid the developing, big stupid grin (that no guy was immune to) and his shy blush.

                "No," Hazel eyes that were almost gray, almost green hardened adamantly as he had never seen. Her left hand, from which tiny silver bracelets jingled musically as she moved it, closed around the top of a chair. The Sandrock pilot was unsure whether this was a sign of the female's dominance or to steady some rage building inside her. "You tell me what's wrong."

                "Nothing, just practicing my James Dean that's all." A nervous giggle, they both knew it was a bad cover up. And then the nervous shifting as Rose slid into the chair. Aquamarine eyes slowly lifted themselves from the coffee, which was becoming cold, to gaze guiltily into imploring ones that had lost their hard edge to curiosity. She was not surrendering, nor demanding. Emotions flashed so rapidly through this perceptive girl that the slim boy thought she would make a nice actress or a soldier.

                The once blond emitted a small effeminate sigh of defeat partnered with a melancholy smile that was becoming too common on his boyish face. "Do I have to tell you?"

                "It's absolutely imperative if you value your life Mike." Her face was serious, even so to the point that Quatre gulped. Then with a quick nod he wrapped her hands in his and raised his eyes to hers.

                "Rosaline, have you ever fallen in love with someone and known that no matter what you do the two of you just can't be together? Have you ever woken up from a beautiful dream and seen the bed empty bedside you?"

                "Oh Michael," the girl's voice was little more than a whisper. She closed her eyes tightly. "I'm so glad you feel the same way!"

                The Arabian's eyes widened before he got his facial features under control. His mind was racing, he couldn't believe that the girl though that he was talking about her. The scene replayed in his head, and he saw himself taking her hands into his…He supposed that her guess was feasible, and it was so much easier to lead Rosy into the lie that he lived than tell her the strange and confusing truth.

                So Quatre threw the expecting girl what he had hoped was a shy smile.

***

                The girl giggled incoherently at herself, feet falling up stairs. She was completely and equally as smashed as the stupidly smiling boy beside her. Both were completely and blissfully oblivious to the hateful stares around them.

                The woman hadn't had much trouble in convincing Quatre into going out for a drink after he had confessed "his love for her." They had toasted to Cupid working in their favor, a rarity. One drink turned into two, two into three, three into four- from there Quatre lost count. Even when he had dropped to his knees to spew his liquor across the bar table, and both of them had gotten kicked out, he had held the same silly grin on his face.

                "Rosa…" The Arabic stumbled over his words with a giggle, like he was trying naughty words in another language. "Rosy, your neighbors are staring at us. Maybe we should carry on with this inside close doors."

                "We're really close." She sang in a teasing voice, tripping over her feet. Her eyes were filled with a confused sort of concentration for a moment as she tried to right herself again. "People stare only because the object of their attention has something they desire. Even negative staring is envy; their envy for our blissful ignorance and the joy we take in life. Whoopsy-daisy."

                The Sandrock pilot threw his arms out to catch the falling girl, amazed. Amazed firstly at the speech that switched so quickly from philosophical into ditz, and secondly at the observation itself. Sometimes he caught glimpses of things her, intelligence, control and a keen observance. He held her around her waist and whispered in her ear that they were at the apartment number she had revealed earlier.

                "Nuh-uh, not this one." She replied in a tone no louder than his own. Her hand dove into jacket pocket and came out with a key. "See, this keyhole juts up too much to fit this key."

                "Know what- I think you're too smart to be just a waitress Rosy. You should put the knowledge you have to work for something bigger and better."

                The key in the brunette's hand slid into to door next to the one Quatre had pointed to. She turned it with a faint click and fumbled with the door knob for a few seconds before carefully sliding the door open. Quatre half-noted she had reached for something as she did this. Her smaller hand slid into his and pulled him into her dark apartment, lit only by a sliver of silver moon. The serious look again took over  the incoherent drunk.

                "I seem to smart because I am too smart for the job." The hand tugged him further into the apartment and pushed him onto a leather couch with expertise. "I'm a spy, I work for the Preventors and I'm on a mission to find out the location the multi-billionaire Quatre Raberba Winner who went missing New Years Day."

****


End file.
